


The Object of His Affection

by elenorlaura



Category: Smallville
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenorlaura/pseuds/elenorlaura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chlollie PWP, originally posted to LJ. Posted here to archive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Object of His Affection

Chloe is almost exactly how Oliver thought she would be when he realized that he was on the verge of being infatuated with a pint-sized budding megalomaniac with a freight train of emotional baggage. Sleeping with the object of his affection usually cured him. He figured that it would work with her. He would sex her up. She could work her budding potential for sex kitten allure on him until she realized that being Oliver Queen’s plus one was a dead end to world domination. They would both get lots of physically exhausting bonus sex. He would eventually get cold feet—but it would come out okay in the end because the Chloe he knew never could hold a grudge, and under the surface, she was a practical girl.

There would be a break-up and a few weeks of resentment and seething until the next crisis rolled around, and she’d sort him back into his second or third runner -up to best friend slot based on general usefulness and willingness to be bullied into doing what she wanted with minimal fuss. In a decade he’d be someone who would attend her wedding—the one that would stick, because Chloe would never screw that up twice—and he’d experience a twinge of nostalgia fueled regret. He’d spoil her crazy smart kids on purpose, just to get that exasperated look he adored directed his way. He’d tell her husband that he better not ever forget that he was a lucky man, and her husband would kind of hate him, but not nearly as much as he would learn to hate Clark.

Good thing he nipped _that_ infatuation right in the bud, he thought as his body reacted to the thrill of her cool, baby soft skin against his. His opportunities for seeing Chloe like this: naked, relaxed, and asleep had been non-existent up to this point. 

She tried to scoot away from him, voicing an inarticulate protest over having her sleep interrupted. It made him laugh a little because she wasn’t supposed to be sleeping in his bed. It was one of her unstated rules.

Chloe Sullivan was shockingly good at making an exit after they had sex. He should have been more appreciative because the artful exit was something that he thought he could always improve on, and it meant that he didn’t have to be an asshole and kick her out. Normally he led with ‘are you leaving now?’ and moved straight on to ‘I wasn’t going to call you anyway’. Perversely, her lack of post-coital clinginess made him feel that his infatuation killing non-relationship with her was being challenged.

It was probably a reaction worth examination, but that violated the no-strings ethos they had settled on in a way that implicated him, so he went with his strong suit starting with his mouth, at the nape of her neck. By the time he reached the base of her spine, she was awake, opening her legs, and dragging his hand up to her breasts . . . or she was trying to check his watch.

“What time is it?” she asked, not finding his watch, and sounding half asleep and cranky.

His eyebrows rose at the tone and his head lifted since she was rolling onto her side. He decided to use her hip as a chin rest. “It’s late,” he said, twisting his wrist out of her grasp so he could re-direct his hand. She smelled familiar in a very specific way that he was more accustomed to recognizing after she left him to wake on his own. Chloe in his bed smell was his cock’s version of morning coffee with a hot gooey cinnamon roll. For the sake of his washboard abs, he didn’t indulge in breakfast sweets, but he wasn’t inhuman. He was tempted.

She pushed her hair out of her face, lifting her head off the pillow. “How late?” she wanted to know.

Cranky Chloe was kind of cute. 

There was some primitive part of his brain that recognized that it was time to spring into action, so he ignored the question, and went with his mouth again, nipping her hip and mapping the shape of her hipbone so he could run the tip of his tongue up the delicate hollow inside of her hip. That was just a little bit of misdirection to make her go with him, over on her back, and then he had all of her available to him and he took advantage of it, caressing her cooler body until her fingers were in his hair and the tension in her body was about something other than irritation at herself for failing to execute her escape plan.

Even before he was marooned on an island with no one to talk to, Oliver spent a lot of time in his own head. He got stuck in there from time to time. It gave him the clarity to call himself on his stupid shit. Like, pride and vanity. 

He was a good lover. It made him cringe a little to know that he had arrogantly said as much to her. To _Chloe Sullivan_. And worse, he meant her to understand that while he was pretty sure that having sex with her would be great fun, it was mostly just him putting himself out there for her. She really needed to quit crawling up everyone’s ass and get a life. Everyone from Clark to Emil to Jonn telling her that, was not getting through her myopic Watchtower filter.

Oliver knew that he possessed a collection of conventionally desired characteristics. He was blessed with good looks and he took care of himself. He was reasonably well educated, and probably better informed than the average person. He was wealthy enough that money wasn’t just the measure of what he could buy. It was enterprise and influence that had the power to effect lives. His hobby? Masked do-gooder—conveniently, Chloe’s favorite type. 

Chloe obliterated all of that. She swept it aside in the artlessness of her response, in the way she touched him. It took him a long time to recognize that the way she touched him was probably something she learned touching herself. That was why she touched his face, stroking his cheek or running her fingers over his lips. It was how she reached past all of the things that he thought were probably his best points to find what was in him that was hungry for the same things that she wanted.

She loved words. She was probably the most articulate person he knew. She used words for everything—except this. In bed she was almost inarticulate, pressing the words she didn’t use into his skin with her fingertips.

He gave her words, whispered across the skin his tongue laved, into her delicately shaped ears, directed to her beautifully dazzled eyes. He fed her ideas. Word pictures. Like him, she put some effort into her appearance, and like him, it’s mostly a costume that conforms to the role she has adopted. She’s got a look, updated from hundreds of hours of classic films and role models she picked because she’s been motherless nearly as long as he has. She has her narrow skirts and jewel toned blouses and her high heels, and it’s all window dressing to the quietly unquiet quest to define who she is in a way that is acceptable to her and to everyone she deems important. 

She was not particularly vain about what lies beneath that, which is what he speaks to, with his hands and his mouth and his cock because she is so beautiful. Sometimes she teases him about the pale green sheets on his bed, but she doesn’t know that he ordered a half a dozen sets of them after he noticed that against the dense cream and pink flush of her skin, and the gold of her hair, and her eyes, that particular shade of green make her look like his bed was dressed with her in mind. His doe eyed ingénue. His personal avatar of renewal . His goddess of reinvention. 

He finds all his favorite places; the soft shell of her ear, the elegantly fragile shape of her collar bones, the blue-under-white hint of vein on the underside of her forearms where her skin is softer. He discovered that she freckled dark. There was one lone, orphan freckle on the margin of her pale pink nipple that he touched with the tip of his tongue, smiling as he felt her fingers in his hair because she knew that for some reason, that spot was irresistible to him. 

“It’s all of you,” he said, answering his own unstated question, taking her nipple into his mouth, distracting her with one hand, between her legs, and one finger, gliding over her clitoris in a slow back and forth motion that does for her clit what his mouth is doing to her nipple. It’s what he’s thinking about, anyway. How she’ll taste. How she feels clenching around his fingers as she rode his hand between her legs. 

When she stroked him, he told her how he was going to fuck her, because her pride rivals his and he was morbidly certain that Chloe does not want what she can’t have for long. The surety of his desire feeds hers. 

She got into his head. He had no idea how she did it. He wondered if she understood how much time he spent in his head. How much stuff was churning around all the time, crowding out sleep and sex, demanding attention from the rest of him. Giving him no quarter, no peace, no mercy. He wondered how much of it she saw when she was there with him, taking him out his head and into her body. 

He felt something like shame for how he had abandoned condoms. Barely two weeks into their non-relationship, he stopped stopping to take care of that. She used contraceptives, but he had always accepted the responsibility for protecting his partners from his lifestyle, and he very astutely protected himself from his partners. He thought that maybe t it was because he was committed to changing his life. A cast of second string lovers was incompatible with the life he chose to lead now. Or possibly because their lives, and what they might become, were forecast by a glimpse of a terrible and terrifying future where they all die. He wasn’t invested in anything but keeping it from happening and hanging on to whatever it was that they were. 

The hot, wet kiss of her body receiving him obliterated remorse. She was so small. So delicate. Even the thinnest of barriers might have kept him from being careful enough with her. Filling her body, feeling her tremble as they found a slow, satisfying pace, feeling her hands on his shoulders and back, made want rise beyond sating the growing expectation settling in the base of his spine. He ran one fingertip from her hairline, over her brow, between her eyes, down her nose. Her tongue met his fingertip at her lips. 

Oh, yeah, his brain made the connection. He’d gotten sidetracked. He was back on task, tracing her lips, feeling her teeth scrape his finger. 

“You like this?” he asked, tugging her lower lip down while he angled his head to reach her lips, absorbing a moan that contained a fervent yes.

Filling her, he stilled, focusing all his attention on kissing her while she was holding him inside her. 

“Oliver,” she gasped his name, turning her head to give him the access to her neck that he wanted. “Please,” she whimpered, squirming under him to try to get him to move. 

“Uh-uh,” he grunted, smiling a little. “You feel so good,” he said, flicking her earlobe with his tongue.

Her hands moved down his back, purposefully. Her hips rolled up and she grabbed his ass, holding him while she ground against him. 

He knew all of her little tells. He knew that little hitch in her breathing when she was close, and the tension that would start in her legs and her back when she was almost there. He was pretty sure that the weight of him, anchoring her was something that she needed in a way that was another of the things that was best left unexamined, for now. When one of her hands left his ass, and her fingers curled into his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers, he almost gave in. Instead, he moved, breaking her hold on him, nearly pulling out of her before filling her again while she cried out.

But, he wasn’t done. Pulling out of her entirely, he slid his arms under her legs, using his hands and arms to support her while he went after that taste of her that he had almost missed. She flattened her hands on the mattress, and slowly curled her fingers in the sheet, pulling as his mouth tenderly alternated between caressing and tugging. He leisurely visited all of his favorite aspects of her, mapping with the tip of his tongue the thin, sensitive, nerve rich hidden treasures of her body. He’s learned to censor himself. There are certain words that he’s used too casually with other women that threaten her—he’s seen it in a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. He doesn’t avoid them simply because her sensibilities are too delicate or because she’s innocent and he likes that. Oliver avoids them because Chloe loves words and those words mean something to her. He avoids words that she can’t be allowed to use to define them. 

Reminding her that there is a lower starting point to why she’s in his bed, doesn’t really work for him. Chloe Sullivan isn’t exactly what Oliver thought she would be when he impulsively threw out the option of being more than friends and less than lovers. What she might become is a squeezed in between his heart and his throat. He’s pretty sure that he knows exactly where this is going for him.

When she comes apart, he covers her, re-introducing her to the comfort of his weight anchoring her, and his body filling her. They are together, and a part of him knows that she’s his heart’s ease and the beginning of the best ending. It’s a fleeting awareness. What’s left after he’s made good on his claim to be a good lover is an extended quiet that blankets his mind while he lies beside her, his hand stroking her face. Sex isn’t working to cure him. The sheer mass of his infatuation is formless, weightless, and it still makes his chest ache, because she’s already planning her next exit.

And he’s got no fucking clue why it guts him every time she walks away.


End file.
